This week’s theme is “Nicknames.”
It's Appalachia. Of course, I have many ancestors and family and friends with nicknames.
My big brother has the nickname, Big City Hillbilly. Born in Weston, West Virginia and traveled the Hillbilly Highway to Maryland. Steve is a member of the Patriot Guard and takes the responsibility of seeing a soldier to his final resting place very seriously.
But everytime I tried to think of which ancestor to write about this week, I kept circling back to one of my favorite memories of my beloved grandfather, Ward King. So, here it is......
At an extremely young age and one of my first memories is hanging outside with my grandfather and the other men while the wives cooked for a picnic later that day. The men were all sharing stories about their farms and current events. My grandfather was always known to tell a good joke and I guess it was time to lighten the mood.
He grabbed a stick and drew, in the dirt, a typical four way intersection.
The Story Goes Like This…
Traffic was heavy in town today. Cars crowded the streets, and one main intersection was especially chaotic. Since this is a no-stoplight town, a policeman was called in to direct traffic when things got too busy.
As each car passed by the officer, the drivers tipped their heads and called out, “Scout!” This went on for two hours.
My grandfather, sitting among a group of men—farmers to the core—weaved this story to them. Finally, he asked them, “Why does everyone shout ‘Scout’ at the policeman?”
The men mulled it over.
One of them guessed, “Maybe it’s because he was the first officer to arrive at the intersection.”
“No,” my grandfather replied.
Another chimed in confidently, “He’s probably the leader of a Boy Scout troop.”
“Nope.”
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| Ward King, Braxton County, WV |
The group sat in silence for a moment, pondering. Then, another man offered,
“Maybe it’s because he’s a good hunting ‘scout’ and has some Native American bloodlines?”“No,no” my grandfather said again, shaking his head.
The men, now determined to uncover the truth, continued speculating but came up empty-handed.
At four years old, I sat there, completely confused by what I was witnessing. Why was this such a mystery?
Finally, my grandfather leaned forward and asked, “Do you give up?”
The men, defeated, begrudgingly admitted, “Yes.”
But not me.
“Wait!” I exclaimed, my small voice cutting through the summer air. Shocked that I had spoken up—after being as quiet as a church mouse—the men turned to me, their eyes wide.
My grandfather looked at me with a mischievous grin and said, “All right, Sandy, why do they shout ‘Scout’?”
I simply declared, “Because it’s his name.”
Dead silence amongst the men.
I glanced at my grandfather, and I’ll never forget the spark of pride in his eyes.
Then, with a hearty laugh, he exclaimed, “Gosh darn it, Sandy! You are correct!”
Scout was the policeman's nickname.
My GrandDad, oh how I miss that man so much. I could not have asked for a better grandfather than him. 💞
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#52Ancestors was started by another WikiTreer, blogger, and professional genealogist, Amy Johnson Crow. Check out her Generations Cafe Facebook group
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